


First Night

by andchaos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, so much fluff you could drown in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I accidentally wrote a ficlet about Castiel's first night in the bunker, in which he hasn't yet figured out how to sleep so he and Dean hold hands a lot and snuggle. Whoops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Night

When Castiel first showed up at the bunker, Dean was furious, but he didn’t show it.

          He knew what Castiel had done. He hadn’t forgiven him for the acts he had committed before The Great Fall. Pie, porn, and toilet paper hadn’t been a sufficient apology, but looking at his forlorn expression now, Dean knew he couldn’t _act_ mad. Castiel was human (this much was instantaneously evident) and hurting and probably terrified, so Dean opened the door a little wider and stepped forward to hug Castiel tightly, because he looked like he could use it.

          Castiel didn’t move for a second; he had never been good at receiving hugs. He supposed, though, that he needed to learn to interact properly, so he copied what Dean had done in Purgatory and threw his arms around Dean and burrowed into his neck, because this was the only way he knew how to hug. Bobby had done it once, a lifetime ago, but other than that the only person who had ever taken him into their arms was Dean; even Sam had brushed him off, claiming it would be awkward. He clung to Dean and when he started to tear up, he let himself cry into this gesture of affection and acceptance and the promise of _you’re home_.

          _Humanity is overwhelming_ , he thought as he followed Dean into the depths of the bunker. It was late afternoon so Dean led him into the kitchen to start cooking dinner for the bunker’s three—now four—occupants. As Castiel silently collected pots and dishes for their pasta, Dean gathered the necessary ingredients and watched Cas out of the corner of his eye. Well, he glowered really, a bit mistrustfully. If he was going to act sweet to his face, he had to release his pent-up aggression somehow, and this was harmless, really.

          Well, mostly harmless. When the penne had nearly finished cooking and they were leaning against the counter sipping beers and watching the noodles boil, Castiel started watching Dean instead, who was resolutely focusing on the water. Cas’s eyes were piercing, though, sharp and intuitive despite his new mortal limitations, and he acted like he still had an eternity to study Dean’s face, and finally Dean snapped.

          “What?” he asked sharply, finally turning to catch Castiel’s eye and wishing he hadn’t. The moment their gazes met, the rage that had been simmering fiercely inside of him melted away, replaced with cool contentment and, despite his best wishes, _trust_. He was foolish and self-loathing and this was ill-advised, and _he trusted Cas._

          Castiel’s gaze intensified and his head tilted. “You’re angry with me,” he observed gravely.

          Dean wanted to affirm this, but when he went to probe his feelings for the right words to shout, he found that he had no fuel for the fire he wanted to set blazing. “No, Cas,” he sighed finally. “No, I’m not angry.”

          “Then you’re upset,” he amended, squinting slightly.

          “I’m…just glad you’re home, buddy,” said Dean as gently as he could manage, fixing him with a tight smile. At odds with his words, he slammed down his beer, clapped Cas on the shoulder a little too hard, and went to take the pasta off the stove.

          Dinner was a quiet affair, after the initial greetings that hailed him when Kevin and Sam (the latter still weak) entered the room and discovered Castiel’s presence. Kevin and Sam talked rapidly to each other about various discoveries they had made while searching the Men of Letters’ archives, but Castiel just watched them, albeit with interest. Dean shoveled food into his mouth and watched Cas doggedly and tried to remember how to relight the fury that had fanned in his stomach when he’d first let Cas in, but he had let it go out and now all he had was soot and dust and the vague smell of something that had already stopped burning, like after candles go out and you’re left with nothing but old flames and the vague scent of vanilla.

          Afterwards Cas helped Sam limp back to his room because he was trying to do penance for his friends and because Sam was his brother and he wanted to ascertain that he was perfectly alright. He waved away Kevin’s attempts to help and the prophet closeted himself in the library again instead, going over research. Castiel all but tucked Sam into bed, and by the time he flicked out the lights and shut the door, Sam was already sleeping.

          Dean had just finished cleaning up from dinner when Castiel found him. Dean asked how he was doing, _really_ , and Cas lied that he was doing just fine.

          “I’m serious, man,” said Dean, fixing him with a hard stare to emphasize his earnestness.

          Castiel smiled softly, brokenly. “I’m fine, Dean. Can we do something human?”

          So Dean threw in an Indiana Jones movie, sprawled on the couch, unscrewed another beer, and grinned over his shoulder at Castiel, who was still standing, looking around awkwardly, strangely dwarfed in his trenchcoat. Dean took in his appearance and leaped to his feet.

          “You should shower first, man,” he said, clapping Cas on the back as he walked by, clearly intending for him to follow. They walked down the hallway into Dean’s room, where he instructed Castiel on how the shower here worked.

          “I’ll leave a change of clothes on my bed for when you’re done. Come back out to the living room after, okay?”

          Castiel nodded and Dean shut the door to the bathroom, and from this nod to when the door clicked shut, obscuring his figure, Cas didn’t once take his eyes from Dean’s face.

          He showered quickly and then turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around him like a kid with a security blanket instead of properly tying it off at the waist. He brushed his teeth quickly with the toothbrush Dean had handed him before leaving, then exited the bathroom and pulled on the clothes left on the bed in a neat pile.

          Dean had changed while he had been cleaning up, and he was now relaxing in an old grey shirt and a ratty pair of dark sweatpants, occasionally sipping from his beer, focused intently on the screen. He looked up when he heard Cas rustling behind him.

          “Come on, you already missed the beginning—”

          His voice cut off abruptly when he caught sight of Cas. He was twisting his hands nervously, but there was still something beautifully perfect at the sight of him in Dean’s old AC/DC shirt and blue sweats. Dean searched for words for a solid minute before patting the couch next to him.

          “It’s barely started,” he managed, and Cas gave a small nod and reached for his own drink again.

          Dean scoffed suddenly. “Dude, you’re dripping all over the couch. Did you towel off your hair?”

          Castiel turned to look at him. “My hair—?”

          Dean rolled his eyes and stood up. “Wait here.”

          He returned moments later with the towel that Cas had used (though not well, and he was soaking through his shirt in places).

          “You’ve got to dry off your head too,” he explained calmly, standing behind the couch and ruffling Cas’s hair with the towel. He dried in silence, and Cas didn’t say anything either, his eyes trained on the screen but his thoughts somewhere in the region behind his head. Dean continued toweling his hair long after it was suitable, making it fluffy and messier than usual. He removed the towel and ran his fingers through Cas’s hair, just once to make it a little tamer, but Cas leaned back into the touch, and Dean kept doing it. He wadded the towel in his right hand and kept it resting on the back of the couch, probably leaving a wet mark, but he didn’t care because he was focusing on his left hand making slow, repetitive strokes over Castiel’s head.

          At some point Castiel reached up and grabbed Dean’s hand, halting his actions.

          “Come watch with me,” he said quietly, tugging on the hand he had gripped in his. Dean obliged; he could have removed his hand from Cas’s and taken the towel back to the bathroom to dry and then sat down across the couch, but instead he dropped the cloth right onto the carpet and let Cas’s gentle tugs lead him around the arm of the couch until he was sitting next to him, too close because Cas had grabbed his left hand with his left hand, and their arms were crossing Dean’s body somewhat uncomfortably.

          “Wait,” said Dean, pulling his hand free. Castiel turned to look at him, his eyes big and wide and hurt in the dark, so Dean fixed him with a little smile and took his left hand with his right so that they could both sit comfortably. Castiel’s mouth turned upwards very slightly at the corners, and he settled back into the couch and faced the screen again.

          _I’m just giving him something to hold onto_ , Dean told himself as he held Castiel’s hand in the darkness of the bunker.

          _He’s been through a lot and needs comfort_ , Dean told himself as he pressed closer to Castiel’s side.

          _We’re friends_ , Dean told himself as his thumb started to rub small circles into the side of Cas’s hand. Cas hummed quietly and leaned further into Dean, who did not pull away.

          At one point during the movie Cas’s eyes started to flutter closed, but he would resolutely jerk them wide again every time, even when his head had fallen onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean released his hand, ignoring his soft squeak of protest, and put his right arm around Cas’s shoulders, reaching across himself to grasp tightly to Cas’s left hand with his own. Cas burrowed further into him and Dean tried not to think of it as cuddling, even when he reached his right hand up and starting brushing it lightly through Cas’s hair.

          He shushed him quietly and murmured, “Why don’t you sleep, Cas?”

          “I can never sleep,” whispered Castiel, the fingers on his free hand playing with a loose thread on Dean’s shirt.

          “What do you mean?”

          “I can’t fall asleep. And when I do, I wake up with nightmares every few hours,” Cas explained, sounding breathy and tired, like he hadn’t slept properly in the week between The Great Fall and now—which, in all likelihood, he probably hadn’t.

          Dean released his hand to turn off the television, then untangled himself from Cas’s sleepy arms and stood. Cas blinked up at him, unfocused and confused, lips parted and head tilted, and Dean held out his left hand expectantly. Castiel took it after a moment’s pause and Dean hauled him to his feet, but when he considered letting go, Cas squeezed tighter, and Dean let them walk like that down the hallway, intertwined and silent.

          “Are you taking me to my room?” asked Cas, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly.

          “No,” said Dean, pushing open a different door than the one to the guest room that they had made up for their fallen angel friend. “You’re sleeping with me tonight.”

          Castiel let himself be ushered into the room, bare feet curling into the plush carpet floor. Dean let him stand there for a moment, taking in the space, before tugging him over to the bed. “Come on, everyone sleeps better with someone else.”

          He sat down on the edge and Cas all but collapsed next to him, so he ushered him to the other side and pulled the blankets over him, never letting go of his hand, because every time his grip loosened even a little bit—when he was leaning over or when he just forgot to hold tightly enough—Cas would redouble his grip as though Dean’s rough palm was all that was keeping him together in this horrible world of monsters and mortals.

          He burrowed under the blanket himself and looked over at Castiel, then rolled his eyes.

          “Come here, dude. No one can sleep on their back like that.”

          Cas rolled over obligingly, which inadvertently put him closer to Dean. When Dean also turned onto his side, their noses were perhaps an inch apart. He raised their clasped hands above their heads, their arms resting on the pillows and their heads resting on their arms. Dean threw an arm out and over Castiel’s waist, then pulled him closer. Their legs got a little tangled under the sheets and Cas hummed contentedly, slinging his arm over Dean’s shoulder so that his hand was resting in Dean’s hair. He slid his fingers through the rogue strands and half-smiled. Dean started grinning when this look crossed his face, and before he’d thought it through properly he closed the last few inches between them and kissed his best friend.

          It was innocent, cleansed of all of their individual self-loathing and worry. Dean didn’t have to probe his feelings just yet, and Castiel didn’t have to get anxious about this particular aspect of mortality right this minute. He let his lips linger on the hunter’s and when Dean pulled away, he leaned up to press their lips together one more time before nestling his head into Dean’s neck. Their chests were pressed together and Castiel could feel Dean’s breathing like the sea rocking a ship to sleep, and he could hear the story that Dean started whispering in his ear like a lullaby.

          “Are you going to tell me a bedtime story, Dean?” he quipped, and then he could feel Dean’s laughter rock through his entire frame.

          “I can sing you a song if you’d rather,” he answered lightly.

          “Would you?”

          This was said with more sincerity, so after a brief hesitation, Dean pressed his mouth closer to Cas’s ear.

          _Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better…_

          Wrapped firmly in Dean’s arms, his breath tickling the side of his neck, his throaty singing voice ghosting through his skin, his hand pressing into the bare skin of his back, his legs hooked through his own, Castiel closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.


End file.
